P. O. W.

As he returns from long-awaited days
To lovelorn dungeons buried deep in the smoke
That curls from cigarettes like locks of hair
And fills every recess of burning air,
Winter's touch having only just awoke
The cold and bitter TV-static haze,

He screams against the truth. It isn't right.
He wants to turn around. Nothing lies
Ahead but pain. He passes through her door
Back to reality, back to the daily war
Fought against the ever-resounding cries
Of love, ringing hollow in the mounting night.

They're everywhere and yet they don't exist,
Echoing in his footsteps up a flight of stairs
And through familiar rooms, past graffiti
Scrawl but when he turns he finds them empty
With posters strewn about that no one cares
To read. If they were gone, would they be missed?

Would he be missed? If he were taken down,
Crumpled carelessly, and thrown away,
Who would notice? Who would say a word?
Would he pass screaming, his muffled cries unheard
As they are now, leaving more to say
About life and love? Yet now without a sound,

A breath, he concedes that life and love are unfair
To leave him stranded in this land of unconcern.
While affection is daily borne from heart to heart,
He finds his own more often shorn apart.
Can one reach the point of no return?
Can one truly love from out of nowhere?

The night falls heavily beside his feet
As he sits in darkness at his desk, alone,
Waiting for another day to bear
The sun to radiant heights, in burning glare.
Perhaps tomorrow's seat will be a throne
And love will offer more than just retreat.